


The Breaker

by God1643



Series: Micro-Stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Guitarist Harry Potter, Guitarist Slang, Light-Hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 03:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/God1643/pseuds/God1643
Summary: An old man has run his pawn shop for decades. He recalls a particular customer, when the young man's godson shows up sixteen years later.The encounter is certainly memorable.





	The Breaker

A storefront was just opening, at the crack of dawn, when the glass door swung open softly on oiled hinges and sent a small bell dancing into sound.

A young woman rested beside the glass case counter, rested on a cushioned black barstool and idly chewing gum. A bubble cracked with a pop as she slumped tiredly, clearly just barely awake.

Angus’ Pawn Shop was a small store, nestled between two large townhouses in Greater Whinging. A small apartment above it was where Angus and his wife Marian lived, along with their long term visiting granddaughter.

That very same granddaughter opened their shop for them, allowing them time to relax in bed and for Marian to later whip up a decent breakfast for the three of them.

The shop rarely got business this early in the morning, but it had some today.

A young man, muscled and tanned, entered the shop. A sharp jawline was doused in thick black stubble, under high, nearly aristocratic cheekbones. Piercing jade eyes shot their gaze from slightly sunken sockets, sweeping the room with the vigilance of one much older and much more scarred.

“Good morning.” He rumbled, voice falling from his lips to break over the room. While not particularly deep, it was rich and came from a powerful set of lungs. He was a swimmer, most likely, with that tapered torso and voice.

“Good morning to you too, sir. How can I help?” Lynn asked, her vibrant blue eyes sparkling with the bubbly happiness of one much younger.

“I’m looking for a guitar. I’ve heard rumours regarding this particular piece, that it was sold here.” The man rumbled once more, casting his eye over the Gibsons and Fenders that hung by their necks on foam racks to his right.

“Which one, if I may ask?” Lynn queried, standing from her seat to walk to the side of the counter that lay in front of their musical instruments.

“An older model. A 1975 Fender Stratocaster, it may have been called the ‘Breaker’ at some point by the man who sold it.” The man stated, casting a keen eye over their displayed guitars.

“I’m unsure. Would you mind if I retrieved my manager?” Lynn queried gently, watching as this impassioned man looked for something that clearly meant something to him.

He gave a nod, yet his eyes remained searching.

Lynn strode out the back door and up to the apartment, and returned a few minutes later with Angus himself. Angus was an old man, in his early seventies, with warm brown eyes and a curtain of thinning, snow white hair.

His arms were wiry with muscle, revealed up to his elbow by peeled up sleeves on his checkered white and navy blue dress shirt. His khaki pants, bound by a black belt, swished as he moved around the counter.

“Angus MacKnight.” He said, voice deep and rough, holding out a calloused hand.

“Haraldr. Call me Harry.” The stranger rumbled, clasping a strong and scarred hand to the older man’s. Giving a firm shake over the counter, the two men stepped away and Angus settled back against the shelf behind him.

“Little Lynn here says you’re looking for a real specific axe?” Angus asked. Harry nodded, his black locks moving with the motion.

“A Strat. 1975 Sunburst, with a rosewood neck and hardtail. It may have been referred to as the ‘Breaker’.” Harry confirmed. Angus’ eyes widened, and he chuckled.

“Thought I’d never see the day…” He muttered, squatting down behind the counter. He pulled a black case from under the bar, and settled it with a slight puff of dust into the air.

“A man came in, more than a decade ago, and told me only to sell this to the first man that came looking for it by name. Said he’d probably look about what you do by the time you came for it.” Angus proclaimed.

“My Godfather. Left instructions on how to get Breaker back in his will.” Harry said sadly. Angus nodded, in understanding.

“It hasn’t been opened since he showed it to me, other than for me to clean it and tune it back up again every couple of months. I just did last week, actually.” Angus said softly.

Harry gently took the case, with shaking hands, and turned it around on the counter. He cracked open the first latch and opened it slowly, nearly reverently.

Laid out on smooth orange velvet, was Sirius’ treasured guitar. Bought in 1975 as a gift for passing OWLS, Sirius had babied it at every turn.

A Fender Stratocaster in good nick from that year were rare, and finding a Hardtail with the even more elusive Rosewood neck was a near miracle.

Harry gripped the strap loosely and hung it about his neck, gripping the neck with his left hand and resting his right wrist just over the pickups.

When Harry looked back up again, Angus bore a wicked smirk and was holding up the jack used for all guitars. The idle buzz of an amp came from where the older man had placed it on the counter, and as Harry slotted in the plug, everything about the world became right for a moment.

Reaching over and playing around with the reverb, Harry’s ears ensured each string was in tune and he began to flirt his nails with the strings.

Sighing as the music took the edge of stress off, Harry felt his fingers move of their own volition to play in time with a song only he could hear, one he knew by heart.

The opening hook to _Hotel California_ was famously difficult, let alone playing the equivalent of all three guitars, but Angus felt his his jaw drop as this prodigy of a teenager pushed through it flawlessly, and without missing a single note or picking wrong.

 _Without a fucking pick_!

His fucking fingers!

Harry paused the moment before Don Henley would have begun singing, and smiled softly to himself. Angus found himself applauding quietly, making the boy’s cheeks flush bright red.

Harry lay the guitar in the velvet with the same reverent motions as before, unplugging it with quiet motions and flipping off the amp. Harry closed the case softly and smiled softly again, before stepping back slightly.

Reaching down into the pocket of his black jeans, Harry pulled free a pouch, crafted of leather. He reached inside and pulled out an obscenely thick stack of folded notes.

As Harry unfolded them, Angus caught sight of the binding paper around them and the number attached to it and goggled. Harry flattened out the fifty thousand pounds in cash and set it softly onto the counter.

“Padfoot sends his regards. Thanks Angus.” Harry said softly. He picked up the guitar case softly and wrapped up the amp leads, tucking them away into the back panel. He lifted his burdens from the counter, and smiled at the shellshocked older man, before leaving.

Angus’ retirement began at the tinkling of that little bell.


End file.
